The Chicken–Egg Marriage Problem of Ponmanipudi

THE CHICKEN, THE EGG… AND ONE DRUNK HUSBAND

(A Ponmanipudi Story of Blame, Buzz… and Unexpected Wisdom)

Every village has a drunkard.

Ponmanipudi had only one, and he insisted on being the chief representative for all of Brindlemalai district...

Murthy Teja....

Tall, loud, emotional, boisterous like a badly tuned violin, permanently smelling of a mixture of arrack, sweat, and regret....

Every evening — without fail — he staggered into Appuswamy’s tea stall, leaned on the pillar like it was his close friend, and declared:

“Appuswamy…ayoo my wife is the reason I drink.”

Appuswamy sighed.

“Aiyyo Murthe… this is the 407th time you are saying it.”

Murthy raised one finger dramatically.

“If my Komala didn’t shout, I wouldn’t drink.”

And right on cue, Komala would appear at the doorstep of the stall and shout:

“If you didn’t drink, I wouldn’t shout!”

And thus…

the Great Ponmanipudi Chicken–Egg Debate continued daily.

Murthy would turn to the crowd.

“See? She is shouting now also! Who can live with this woman without drinking?”

Komala would glare.

“And who can live with a man who comes home smelling like he fell in the gutter?!”

“I drink because of you!”

“I shout because you drink!”

“Drinking came first!”

“Shouting came first!”

The whole village knew this argument by heart.

Children used to imitate it during school cultural programs.

Even the buffaloes rolled their eyes.

One night, things went too far...

Murthy stumbled home and tripped over the doorstep.

He fell flat, hitting his forehead.

Komala ran out shouting — at first in anger, then in terror.

“Murthy! Dei Murthy! Get up! Are you okay?!”

But he didn’t move.

The neighbours rushed in.

Someone called the only number that brings calm to chaos.

Dr. Chari.

He arrived within minutes, checked Murthy, and sighed.

“He’s fine. Just unconscious. And more from exhaustion than alcohol.”

Komala sat beside the bench, tears running silently.

Chari looked at her gently.

“You love him,” he said softly.

She wiped her nose.

“I hate him.”

“No,” Chari said.

“You hate what he becomes when he’s running away from himself.”

Komala didn’t speak.

Her silence was her truth.

When Murthy finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Komala’s soaked eyelids.

“What happened…?” he asked weakly.

“You fell,” she said quietly.

“No… no… I didn’t fall. You pushed me with your words.”

She stared at him.

Then she slapped her forehead.

“AYYOO! Even unconscious you are blaming me!”

The crowd laughed, but Chari raised a hand.

“Enough. Both of you come to the verandah. We need to talk.”

They sat opposite each other, like unwilling students.

Murthy muttered, “She hates me.”

Komala muttered, “He tortures me.”

Chari leaned forward.

“Both of you think you’re the problem… and both of you think the other is the problem.”

They looked away like stubborn teenagers.

Chari continued,

“Let me ask one question:

What if neither the drinking nor the shouting came first?

What if something else came before both?”

Murthy frowned.

“Like what?”

Komala crossed her arms.

“Like his uselessness?”

Chari smiled softly.

“No.

Before the drinking…

before the shouting…

there was disappointment.”

That word landed like a stone between them.

Chari continued:

“Murthy expected marriage to fill his emptiness.

Komala expected marriage to fill her loneliness.

You both expected the other to rescue you.

And when that didn’t happen… one escaped into shouting…

and the other escaped into drinking.”

Komala’s eyes softened.

Murthy blinked.

Chari’s voice lowered.

“Your problem is not alcohol or anger.

Your problem is escape.”

Silence wrapped the room.

And then — the twist neither of them expected.

Chari turned to Murthy first.

“You drink because you cannot say what hurts.”

Then he turned to Komala.

“And you shout because you cannot say what you need.”

Their eyes met — for the first time in years not as enemies, but as two wounded people who forgot how to speak gently.

Murthy whispered,

“Komala… do you want me?”

Her lips trembled.

“I want the person… who used to hold my hand without smell.”

Murthy looked down.

“I can become him again… if you stop trying to make me feel small.”

Komala nodded.

“I can stop shouting… if you stop running from me.”

It wasn’t reconciliation.

It wasn’t magic.

It was two tired souls agreeing to stop running.

Chari smiled.

“Good. Now start again.

Not as husband and wife.

But as two humans who forgot how to speak.”

Murthy whispered,

“And… alcohol?”

Chari shrugged.

“Drink only if you must.

But don’t drink for her.

Don’t shout at him.

Own your pain, and you’ll stop feeding your poison.”

Murthy touched Komala’s hand — gently, like returning to an old memory.

She didn’t pull away.

For the first time, the argument ended not with shouting… but with silence.

A soft one.

A healing one.

And Ponmanipudi finally got its answer to the ancient question:

Which came first — the chicken or the egg?

In marriage… always the misunderstanding.